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Chapter Forty-nine

I
nside the ice fishing house, Turner glanced worriedly at the door while she tended to Dante. Where was John? Dante’s wound
was still bleeding. The blood had soaked through the T-shirt bandage and started dripping down his sides, gluing his shirt
to his skin. Her hands shook as she fumbled at his back. The blood brought back images of yesterday. Victoria’s wound; the
dark-haired woman staring at her with wide, accusing eyes. The memories were too fresh.

She tried to keep her face calm. John’s partner might be an FBI special agent, but she didn’t want to alarm him. He was lying
down now, his handsome face pale against the drying, rust-colored blood on the collar of his shirt. He was younger than John.
That was very apparent when his eyes closed, dark eyelashes brushing against his cheek. She checked her watch again. It felt
like hours, but John had left the ice fishing shack only a few minutes ago. She hadn’t heard any shots, but she still worried.
He might be out there with a killer.

And then Squeaky started barking. Deep, purposeful barks, like the ones he’d given when he’d cornered Dante. Turner half rose.

“Stay here.” The man might have been weak, but he still had an air of command. Especially with his intense gaze trained on
her. “Mac can take care of himself.”

She frowned, distracted. “Mac?”

“John MacKinnon. Everyone calls him Mac. Didn’t he tell you?”

She shook her head.

He smiled rather charmingly, his chocolate brown eyes crinkling at the corners. He really was a beautiful man. “No reason
he should.”

She studied him. “Why don’t you like John?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Oh, come on. You two are barely civil.”

He looked sheepish. “We had a, uh, professional difference of opinion on the last case we worked together.”

“And?”

“That’s it.” He groaned theatrically. “Man, this bullet is killing me.”

She gave him a look. The pain was no doubt real, but he was obviously trying to change the subject. “Tell me.”

“God, you’re persistent,” he muttered. “Okay, we were on a case and I felt that Mac was behaving like a royal—” He shot her
a look. “—jerk. He wasn’t keeping me informed, he was going out and doing his own thing, and he kept blowing me off. So I
went to the SAC—Special Agent in Charge—and let him know what Mac was doing and that I thought he shouldn’t be heading the
case.”

Turner sucked in her breath and stared at Dante incredulously. “You told on him?” Even she could see that would be a very
stupid move with John. What had Dante been thinking?

“No.” He tried to lever himself up and grimaced instead. “No, see, I was just worried about the case—”

“Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow sympathetically. “So, did he slaughter you?”

He winced. “Close. Turned out he was good buddies with the ASAC, who went to the SAC for him—”

“Duh.”

“Yeah, so I don’t play politics well.” If Dante were a little boy, she’d say he was pouting. Turner bit the inside of her
cheek to keep from smiling. “And he kept me off every case he’s worked since then. This is the first one he’s let me on.”

“Can you blame him?”

“No. But he really is a—” That quick glance at her again. “—jerk. Even if he just saved my life.”

Turner laughed. “You two—”

But Dante interrupted her. “Smoke.” His expression suddenly sobered as he looked past her. He tried to lever himself up on
his elbows. “I smell smoke.”

Turner swung around to look behind her. White smoke was curling up from behind the tiny bar. As she watched, there was a pop,
and flames leaped toward the ceiling.

The ice fishing house was on fire.

“Come on.” She wrapped her hands around Dante on the side that wasn’t wounded. “Let’s get out of here.” She pulled with all
her strength, but he came only to a sitting position.

“No.” He must’ve inhaled sharply, because he started coughing, each rasp shaking his frame. He gasped, “It might be a trap.”

She stared at him. “Well, if it is, it’s a darn good one. If we stay here, we’re going to be roasted alive.”

“Then let me go first.” He had his gun out and in his hand.

“You can’t even stand on your own!” She wasn’t sure he could stand at all. Right now, he was leaning against her shoulder.

“I—”

The door burst in and Dante jerked his gun toward it.

John crouched in the doorway. “Come on!”

“He can’t stand, John,” Turner said.

“I can—”

John cut Dante off by simply walking over and wrapping his arms around him. He hauled him to his feet but then staggered.
Dante was making a valiant effort, but his head lolled on his shoulders. He had to be almost a dead weight on John. Turner
tucked the laptop under one arm and came up on Dante’s other side. Together, she and John half dragged, half walked him out
the door. Outside, the air was fresh and the sun bright in her eyes. Turner coughed and looked back. The ice fishing shack
was billowing black smoke. As she watched, a whoosh of flames burst through the roof.

“Christ,” someone exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how much that ice fishing house cost?”

Calvin Hyman was standing by a tree, his arms behind his back. It took Turner a moment to realize he must be handcuffed. Squeaky
was in front of him, apparently guarding the man, although the dog looked anxious. His tongue was hanging out, and he panted.
The fire probably had him on edge. The fire had her on edge, too. She glanced around. The forest was bone-dry. There hadn’t
been any rain for weeks.

“We need to call the fire department.”

“Already have,” John panted. “On Hyman’s cell.”

He pivoted them toward the path leading up the slope to the cabin. Her instinct was to run away from the fire—she felt her
arms prickle at the danger—but they couldn’t run. Not with Dante. John’s partner was leaning more heavily now. Turner wondered
if they’d be able to get the man up the slope. If he passed out, could they carry his dead weight?

“Squeaky, come on,” John called.

The dog hustled over. He evidently thought leaving the fire behind a great idea. Already, the leaves on the trees shading
the ice fishing house were burning.

“You, too, Hyman.” John didn’t bother looking back to see if the bank president would follow.

“You have to let me go,” Calvin whined. “I can’t climb with these things on.”

“Try,” John said unsympathetically.

The gravel on the path slid beneath Turner’s feet suddenly. She went to one knee, painfully pressed into the rocks. John grunted
as Dante’s full weight fell on Turner, pulling him over.

Crack!

Calvin screamed. Squeaky took off again, tail between his legs.
Oh, Lord!
Turner flinched and fell facedown, shaking. She knew that sound. Someone was shooting at them. Again. She dropped the laptop
and tugged at Dante, trying to drag him into the woods with her.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The shots started echoing in her head. The smell of smoke filled her nostrils. Turner whimpered. She didn’t want to be here,
going through this again.

She didn’t want to be dead.

Calvin swore loudly, profanely, and dove into the woods on the opposite side of the path.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

She dug her heels in the soft, dry dirt and heaved at Dante with all her might. And he moved suddenly, toppling her as John
shoved them both into the safety of the trees. She panted into the dusty leaf litter, still shaking. John fired his gun next
to her, the sound so loud she thought she’d go mad. She had her hands over her ears, trying to press the percussive shots
out, but they still came.

The shooter was returning fire, as well. Bark jumped off a tree in front of her. Dante groaned. He had his gun in his hand
but couldn’t bring it up.

All around them, the smoke was choking and thick. The woods were on fire, and the only path out was blocked by a killer. “Oh,
Lord.”

John didn’t respond. His whole attention was on his opponent, somewhere out there, still firing at them.

“Stop! It’s me!” Calvin shouted from the other side of the path. “Dammit, Hank, it’s me, Calvin Hyman. Shoot them, not me.”

John grunted. “Knew he hired this asshole.”

Crack! Crack!

Was the gunman following Calvin’s instructions? Turner tasted ashes in her mouth. John shifted and felt along Dante’s body.
The younger agent groaned. If he wasn’t unconscious yet, he was close to it.

“Here,” John said. “Take Torelli’s gun. The safety is off. All you have to do is point and shoot.” He turned fully toward
her for the first time since they’d dived into the woods, and Turner saw . . . 

Blood.

Blood painting half of his face, clotting over his eyebrows, clumping his eyelashes together, dripping onto the ground. She
thought she smelled the copper scent, mingling with the smell of smoke.

John was bleeding.

No. Not John.
She reached for him, ignoring the gun.

But he shoved the weapon into her hands. “Pay attention. If I pass out, you have to continue shooting. You have to keep him
away, make him think I’m still here.”

The blood.
She whimpered.

“Turner.” His pale eyes bored into hers, grim and intense, deadly serious. “This guy is wacko. He likes to shoot things. You
need to keep him off if I can’t. Because he’ll kill you. He’ll kill all of us.”

He meant to say more, she could tell, but the shooting resumed.

Crack!

She ducked reflexively and felt the grit of dirt in her mouth. She blotted out the image in her mind of John drenched in blood.
Her eyes stung from smoke, and her chest was tight. How long before the fire reached them? How long before they couldn’t breathe
or were burned alive or shot dead?

“Jesus! Let me through, Hank,” Calvin yelled from the other side of the path. “I can’t breathe. Too hot.”

The only answer was another volley of shots.

Beside her, Dante started coughing, his chest shaking convulsively. He groaned, the sound making her more anxious. Turner
was sure that had he been aware, he would’ve smothered the sign of pain.

“Goddamnit!” Calvin yelled again. Branches on the other side of the trail waved frantically as he thrashed around. “I’m coming
out!”

The bank president ran out into the middle of the path, coughing. His hands were still behind his back, bound by the handcuffs,
and he was having trouble keeping his balance. He started up the path, then seemed to notice the black laptop case for the
first time. Turner could almost see his mind debating. Calvin turned and carefully squatted as if he were doing an intricate
curtsey. He was trying to pick up the laptop from behind.

John swore. He raised his gun, but he was beaten to it by the hit man.

Crack!
A shot kicked up dirt a foot away from where Calvin bent. He yelped and toppled over. Then a flurry of shots danced about
him, hitting dirt and rocks and making a haze around Calvin but not touching him. Evidently Calvin had ticked another person
off.

Beside Turner, John took careful aim and fired three shots so quickly that they seemed like one sustained explosion. Her ears
rang, and she covered them reflexively. She thought at first that he’d shot Calvin, but his target was farther up the trail
in the trees. Something large crashed in the woods, and from behind a tree a man’s arm flopped onto the edge of the path.
The rest of the body was thankfully hidden in the shadows of the trees. In the sudden silence, the crackle of the fire was
loud. Nothing happened for several seconds. Turner stared at the arm, waiting, waiting, for it to move. But it didn’t. Instead,
flames began marching down the trail.

The fire had cut off their escape route.

Chapter Fifty

W
e need to get to the lake,” John said and then burst into a spasm of coughing.

Turner nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. The smoke grew denser, creeping into her throat, clogging her chest, stinging
her eyes. Sparks danced through the air. One lit on the back of her neck, and she slapped at it in instinctive panic. John
took Dante’s right arm, and she took the other. They pulled in unison, muscles straining. The young man hung, a dead weight
between them. She hoped his lack of response was from loss of blood, not something more serious. Not that loss of blood wasn’t
serious.

They dragged Dante back out to the path. Turner tripped over the tree roots now obscured by smoke. Calvin had already righted
himself and was hobbling down to the lake. There was no sign of Squeaky. Turner briefly worried. Would the big dog know to
get out of the forest? Animals weren’t always smart about fires. She’d heard tales of cats hiding under beds in burning houses
and horses that refused to leave barns on fire. But she couldn’t worry about the dog now. It was all she could do to hold
up her end of Dante. They edged their way slowly down the path to where the laptop lay in the dust. Turner quickly bent and
grabbed the black case, looping the handle over her forearm, where it hung like a bowling ball.

John shot her a glance but didn’t comment. The lake lay up ahead, blue and serene, the sun sparkling off the water as if nothing
had happened in the last few minutes. As if John hadn’t just saved their lives by taking another. As if the forest wasn’t
roaring behind them like a demon intent on devouring its prey.

A few more careful steps. The path was steep. A birch sapling by the water’s edge exploded into flame, the fire popping and
leaping into the air. Burning leaves floated merrily in the breeze like miniature firecrackers. John stumbled, caught himself,
and stumbled again. Dante sagged against Turner with his entire weight, and they all went down like a house of cards. Turner
skidded on her rear. Dante slid a couple of feet on the trail, head pointed down, gravel rattling after him. He swore weakly,
and Turner managed a small smile. At least he was still alive.

She scrambled to her feet, then doubled over coughing. The wind, so light and playful earlier, had turned malevolent. It swept
toward them, bringing the fire and the asphyxiating smoke with it. She looked up, still coughing, and saw through a cloud
of tears the lake’s bright blue water just out of reach.

“Go on,” John commanded. But when she looked at him, he was still on hands and knees. His head hung down, dripping scarlet
blood into the khaki dust beneath him. “Go on. I’ll follow with Dante.”

And she knew.

John wasn’t going to follow with Dante. He didn’t think he could make it to the lake. He was telling her to save herself.

To go on alone.

Turner felt tears that had nothing to do with the smoke stinging her eyes. How could he even think, after all they’d been
through, that she would just leave him? That she wanted to be alone now? Did he think her the same isolated woman she’d been
only six days ago? She wasn’t that woman.

Not anymore.

Turner dropped the laptop into the dust and went to pull at John. “Come on.”

He looked at her. “Go.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not leaving you. We’ll make it to the lake. Together.”

She pulled again and John heaved to his feet, a colossus rising. The blood on his face was streaked with dirt and sweat, and
he swayed as he stood. But he grimly bent to pull at Dante while Turner took the younger man’s other arm. She strained with
all her might. There was no point in trying to get Dante upright anymore. They simply dragged him on his back. Slowly, agonizingly,
the muscles tearing in her shoulders and arms, they pulled toward the blue lake. Toward safety.

Toward life.

Turner didn’t once look back to see what had become of the laptop. Everything important to her lay ahead and beside her, no
longer behind. And when they finally made it to the water’s edge, the lake embraced them like the cool kiss of a welcoming
mother. Turner felt the liquid wet her feet, calm and soothing. It rose to her thighs and then up to her waist as she walked
into the water. They waded out until the lake lapped gently at her chin. John held Dante’s head above the water.

Only then did she look back.

The shoreline was a holocaust. Flames climbed the trees, licking and devouring, and leapt toward the sky as if seeking more
fuel. The path where she’d dropped the laptop was obscured by smoke and fire. A black pall hung over the sky as far as the
eye could see, shrouding everything in death.

All except the lake. The lake was still quiet. Still cool. Sanctuary and life, it enveloped them in safety.

“Ha,” Calvin gasped from where he struggled to stay afloat in the water. “The laptop’s gone. You have no evidence on me.”

“Premeditated murder,” Dante mumbled. “Contract killing, bank robbery, assault on a—” He drifted off again, but John took
over.

“And generally being a pain in the ass,” he drawled. He smiled crookedly at Turner. “Hyman’s going away for a long time.”

Turner smiled back. Just as Squeaky burst from the trees, made one giant bound, and splashed them all with water.